


open up the door, mr frankenstein

by FyrMaiden



Category: Glee
Genre: Blood Drinking, Canonical Character Death, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-01
Updated: 2014-11-01
Packaged: 2018-02-23 12:24:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2547419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FyrMaiden/pseuds/FyrMaiden
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>the one where Blaine is a vampire, or, that vampire fic I said I'd write six months ago and never finished. (Blaine is held prisoner by Kurt's mother for years until she dies. And then Kurt releases him.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	open up the door, mr frankenstein

**Author's Note:**

> I bottled my original plan for the ending somewhat, so it's somewhat more open (or at least, less closed) than it was before. If there are warnings you think this needs, please let me know.
> 
> As a matter of fair warning, I set myself ridiculous challenges when I write sometimes. Like, "Let's write all of the parts in 100 word bursts, won't that be fun!" So this is preposterously obnoxious in its structure. I kinda like it, though. It feels lyrical. The author is not dead!

The smell awakens him, and then the noise, preternatural and agonised. He tries to move, only to find himself held down by a filigree silver net that’s more effective than heavy shackles would be. He hisses his displeasure at the darkness, and then he sees _her._

He can see the pink flush of blood beneath her skin as she leans down over him with a smile. “My turn,” she whispers, and then, louder, “Hold him still.”

All he can do is refuse to scream as she rips his teeth from his mouth to add to the collection at her throat.

 

Blaine loses track of the days quickly, locked underground. He counts instead in his need to sleep, in the hunger that curls hot and insatiable inside of him. He counts them in the painful ache of his teeth as they regrow, and in the number of times she has her partner hold him still so she can wrench them from his jaw again. He counts the slow passage of time in the changes in her hair, the lines on her face, the wedding ring on her hand, and then, eventually, in the second pulse he hears start inside of her.

 

Blaine thinks maybe he knew before she did as he watches her body change. It doesn’t make her softer like he thinks it should. She checks his teeth more diligently, keeps his shackles bolted more tightly, and wraps a silver collar around his throat for good measure. It burns and he hisses, lips curling back from fangs he doesn’t have, and she laughs, soft and musical, and lays her hands over her growing belly. Her husband calls her and she calls back that she’ll be just a minute. He vows to kill them all, just as soon as he’s free.

 

The first time Blaine sees him, he is maybe three. He follows her down the steps, one hand trailing the wall, the other clutching a pink fairy wand. She catches him behind her, orders him back upstairs, but his eyes keep skating around her. Blaine smiles, lifts his hand and wiggles his fingers, and the boy wiggles his fingers back. “Upstairs,” she says again, pointing. Blaine beckons him closer, listens to the jump skip of her heart as his little feet move forwards. She lifts him bodily in the end, removes him from the basement.

It’s a victory of sorts.

 

The boy comes alone sometimes, brings a chair and sits fives paces from the cage. He talks, and Blaine builds a picture of him. He is bright, intelligent and astute with a quick wit that develops early. In the darkness of the basement he almost seems to glow. Blaine feels it ache in fresh nubs of his fangs, hunger rising animalistic inside of him. Kurt says he looks ill, and Blaine raises his hands to touch his face, can feel the bones of his cheeks and eye sockets, and says he needs food, special food.

Kurt starts bringing him rats.

 

No one comes for weeks, for months. The silver chains tarnish and dull, burning less every time he touches them. He manages to claw himself free, bar his collar, learns to subsist on vermin that skitters through his cell. His teeth grow back, slowly, painfully, and still no one comes. He hears them – her husband and Kurt – but never her, not anymore.

With no way out, he waits. There are no other options. He waits and he starves and he feels his limbs grow stiff with atrophy, and no one continues to come.

Then the door creaks open.

 

The boy who comes down the stairs is not the boy who left. The boy who comes now is older, his body different. This boy is tinged with sadness, his smile painful. Blaine stares at him through milky eyes, reaches with a bony claw-like hand for the one thing that burns like the sun. Kurt is vital, alive, and his pulse hammers in Blaine’s ears.

“Blaine?” he whispers, wrapping his fingers around the bars of the cage. _Afraid_ , Blaine thinks foggily. _He should be afraid._

But why would he be afraid of a half dead creature who can barely move?

 

“What do you need?” Kurt asks softly, sitting inside the cage with him, stroking his hair with gentle hands. Kurt brings him blood now. Although his ribs still show, every meal is an improvement. Every day his bones grate less against one another. He touches the silver at his throat, still bolted firmly in place, and keens quietly. Kurt touches it with reverent fingers and examines the lock.

“It needs a key,” he says, and Blaine makes another noise. “I could cut it, maybe. My dad-”

Blaine doesn’t even try to keep his teeth from his smile at the thought.

 

Blaine is no judge of age. He still thinks of Kurt as a boy, although he knows that he is 18. Kurt had made very sure to let Blaine know that.

(“Legal,” he’d said, his pulse skip jumping and his breath smelling vaguely of alcohol. He’d leaned against Blaine’s cage and smiled beatifically, and Blaine had forced himself into the furthest corner from him, adamant in his own mind that what Kurt was asking would not happen because he was drunk and desperate.)

He thinks about it more, though, what it would be to feel Kurt’s skin give beneath him.

 

Kurt asks if he has ever fed from people. Blaine doesn’t lie. “Yes,” he says, watches Kurt nod and examine his fingernails before his bottomless blue eyes fix on him again. “Have you thought - with me?” he says. Blaine runs his fingers through Kurt’s hair before cupping his face and kissing him softly.

“What are you offering?” he whispers. Kurt kisses him quickly and pulls back, catching Blaine’s hands in his.

“Could you - could you live off of me?” he stammers, and Blaine feels his eyes crinkle as he laughs.

“Yes,” he says, simply. “If you were careful.”

 

The first time Blaine tastes Kurt’s blood, it’s from a mug. Kurt puts the mug on a chair, and lets Blaine into the basement with him. He lets Kurt see his teeth, the jagged razor edges his incisors through to the elongated hungry points of his fangs. Kurt doesn’t back away, but his pulse skitters. Intellectual knowledge butts up against reality and wars across his face. He gives Blaine the mug, and Blaine has to restrain himself from breaking it and licking the fragments clean. With a consuming need, he wants everything Kurt has offered him. He wants it all.

 

The second time, Kurt wraps his arms around Blaine, cants his head to expose his throat. “Do it,” he says. Blaine kisses him instead - mouth, cheek, jaw, neck - then back again. Kurt’s breath hitches, and his hands flex uselessly against Blaine’s sweater.

“I could kill you,” Blaine whispers, kissing his jaw again. Kurt turns his face to glance a kiss off of Blaine’s cheek.

“I trust you,” he says, body wound tight, his head tilting as Blaine’s soft lips find his pulse. The way his body throbs as Blaine’s teeth break his skin makes Blaine’s dead body hum.

 

“Can you go out in daylight?” Kurt asks, stroking his fingers over Blaine’s skin.

“Direct sunlight isn’t good,” he says. Kurt nods.

“It won’t kill you though?”

Blaine smiles and inclines his head, touches the uneven bruises on Kurt’s pale skin. “It won’t kill me,” he agrees.

“Okay,” Kurt says, and groans as Blaine presses his teeth into the soft spaces beneath his ribs. (In the aftermath, Kurt says he’s leaving Ohio for New York and he can’t imagine leaving Blaine behind. It may be merely a different prison, but it won’t be here. Yes, Blaine says. Yes, he’ll go.)

 

Kurt introduces Blaine as his boyfriend, his cheeks pink as he says it. His roommate squeals and throws herself bodily at Blaine. “We thought he was making you up,” she says, coming down off of her toes. “But here you are.” Blaine smiles carefully and squeezes Kurt’s hand.

“I’m very real,” he says, looking around. The space is old, industrial. There is nothing to keep him here. He could go at any time.

And then he glances at Kurt, with his scarf wound artfully around his throat and his wide smile, and he knows in his heart that he’ll stay.

 

Freedom is its own prison, though. There is a city beyond the bare brick walls of his newest cage, and it is full of his kind. He could go, could find them and disappear and never think again of the beautiful boy who saved him once. It would be easy to vanish into the dark places where their worlds collide. And yet every morning his comes back, presses his body flush to the warmth of Kurt’s, and curses his treacherous heart. He made a vow to himself that he plans to fulfil, but against the odds, he actually likes Kurt.

 

It’s tempting, some days, when Kurt is lithe and brilliant, to forget about Elizabeth, to forgive the things she took. It would be easy to say the score is settled. But if theirs was a game of cat and mouse, Blaine detests being the mouse. He doesn’t want to be that thing that Kurt nursed back to health. Kurt’s mother took his family from him. It seems only fair to return the favour.

Except Kurt’s father isn’t guilty of anything but ignorance, and Kurt is hard to resist.

Revenge, Blaine thinks, is difficult when it gets tangled up with love.

 

In the cold still of another grey dawn, the light brittle through the barred windows, Kurt is unusually restless beneath him. Blaine pins his arms, and licks the trace of blood from his translucent skin and Kurt fights against his grip until Blaine lets him go. He pushes himself to his elbows, and blood trails down his ribs, seeps into the sheets, and he just stares into the depths of Blaine’s amber gaze.

“I love you,” he says, and Blaine almost thinks he feels the thump of his heart in his chest. “Do you-?”

“Forever,” he says, and means it.

 

In the end, though, Blaine is a creature that exists in the limbo space between life and death. Kurt turns 20, and then twenty-five and thirty, and Blaine watches him change with a face that barely shows the shadow of his years. Kurt touches his body with reverent hands, worships him with his mouth, and Blaine devotes himself to being everything Kurt thinks he is, to perfecting that version of himself. Kurt, who knew him toothless and loves the monster, deserves the best version of himself that he can be, even if it’s a lie.

Blaine can spare the years.

 

Kurt is 32 years old, the same age his mother was when she died. He runs his fingers across the smooth places of Blaine’s face and says, not for the first time, that Blaine makes him feel fragile. “You could kill me,” he says, and Blaine is silent. “You could make me,” Kurt pries. His fingers find Blaine’s lips, peel them back from his teeth. Blaine takes his wrists in his hands, turns them to expose the scars of over a decade.

“I could have killed you a thousand time,” he says. “Every breath has been my gift to you.”

 

Kurt’s birthday is in May. The morning is clear and bright. In the kitchen, Kurt’s telephone buzzes across the counter top, missed call piling upon missed call. His alarm beeps, intrusive in the silence. Blaine reaches to turn it off before resuming his silence.

In his veins, Kurt’s blood is rich and warm, and it makes Blaine’s skin look almost pink as it flushes through him. Beside him, Kurt lies supine, his breath shallow and his pulse fluttering. If Blaine leaves now, it will falter and fail. His cleaner will find him, and it will be over.

Blaine hasn’t left.

 


End file.
